


Pedalling Backwards

by Wonderfully_Wandering_Alone



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Autistic Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Cabin Fic, Canon Asexual Character, Discussions on Asexuality, Established Relationship, M/M, not that it's mentioned or relevant or anything but it's important and relevant to me lol, pre-160
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:35:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26696122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wonderfully_Wandering_Alone/pseuds/Wonderfully_Wandering_Alone
Summary: Jon's allowed this now. He's allowed to watch and he's allowed to touch and he's allowed to want. He's just not sure he knows how
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 34
Kudos: 226





	Pedalling Backwards

**Author's Note:**

> This is how we know The Magnus Archives has officially become my Special Interest: I'm writing fanfic for it.

  
  
Down. 16. Tired and tested (6). 

_ Me _ , Jon thinks to himself, and snorts a laugh. From the corner of his eye he sees Martin’s mouth twitch in response, a barely-there smile. He squeezes Jon’s knee but doesn’t look up from his notebook. The glow of the afternoon sun stretches through the windows and bathes him golden, highlighting his freckles and catching in his glasses. There’s a small crease between his brows, and he sucks his lip into his mouth as he jots down his next thought. It’s endearing, and Jon can’t help the warmth that blooms in his chest, spreading through his veins. He sets his crossword down, opting instead to just watch Martin for a moment. He’s allowed to do this, now, he reminds himself. He’s allowed to have these quiet afternoons, soft around the edges. He doesn’t know how long for, but right now it’s permanent enough that he doesn’t need to think about that. 

So he settles into the headboard and just watches. 

Martin’s chewing on the tip of his pen again, tapping it lightly against his teeth. It’s better than Jon’s habit- chewing on his nails until there’s nothing left to chew on. He starts tapping out a beat, neither familiar nor foreign, and his foot twitches in time. His socks are soft and red and worn, darned over in the big toe one too many times. Jon trails his gaze, slowly like he has all the time in the world (and he does, maybe he  _ does _ ), up from his feet, his crossed ankles, up his worn jeans and soft jumper, tracing the map of freckles peeking from the collar of his shirt, the bob of his adam’s apple, his soft clean-shaven jawline. The tapping has stopped now, pen pressing a dimple into his lip, and his eyes have fluttered shut. He’s not asleep, just lost in thought, and Jon’s more than familiar with this look on Martin. He wants to reach out a hand, brush his knuckles along his cheekbone, feel the slight flush with his own fingertips, but he doesn't want to move, to disturb Martin’s train of thought, to break the silence. 

So Jon sits there, hands curled loosely in his lap, and he’s at least self aware enough to know that he’s smiling to himself. 

Martin’s eyelashes flutter under the movement of his eyes, hidden behind his eyelids. They’re lighter than they were before the Lonely, but not as noticeable as his eyebrows or hair. His eyebrows were nearing invisible when Jon pulled him out, against his skin translucent from the fog. He’s filling in again, like an adjustment to the saturation of an edited photo. He has freckles now, he blushes- although, not as easily as he once did- and his eyes are that deep brown Jon remembers. 

There’s colour to Martin’s hair again, slowly but surely returning. The lighting helps, but his hair is definitely warming up. Honey, Jon thinks, and Martin looks up at him, pen still between his lips, a smudge of ink staining them blue, a rosy blush crawling up that back of his neck, and- 

Jon said that out loud. 

“Hm?” Martin asks, voice soft and teasing and his whole face warms. Jon’s never been one for pet names, but the way Martin looks at him- he might have to rethink that stance. 

“I love you,” he says simply, because it is simple. It’s a Tuesday, their mugs sit empty on the nightstand, the sun is coming through the window, Martin’s hair is returning to its soft dark ginger, and Jon loves him. 

Martin sets his notebook down gently, placing the pen on top of it, then leans over and cups Jon’s chin in his hand. He’s slow and deliberate about it, tauntingly so, and so Jon leans into him impatiently. Their lips meet, just like any other time, but Jon allows himself to sink into it, closing his eyes and clearing his mind. His hair falls from one of its pins, and he pulls away with a sigh. 

“Stupid hair,” he mutters to himself, bringing his hands instead to tug his hair free from its bun. 

“Let me do that for you,” Martin says, softly. He scoots around so he’s sitting behind Jon, his calves pushed up against Jon’s thighs, and he takes Jon’s hair in his hands. 

“Oh,” Jon says. It’s been a long time since anyone else touched his hair, and Martin is exactly as gentle as Jon knew he would be. He melts into the touch, tilting his chin toward the ceiling, his hair falling back into Martin’s hands. 

He moves slowly, pulling the hair through his fingers in careful sweeps. He starts behind Jon’s ears, hands moving in unison, gently breaking knots open and smoothing the strands out. Jon’s eyes flutter shut, lost in the sensation. Martin’s fingers move up his hairline, working stress out of Jon’s temples, and Jon feels his jaw slacken. It feels good. It feels  _ so  _ good, and he wants Martin to stay like this forever. 

Hands move away from his hairline, down his parting, massaging through the tightness Jon’s bun left behind. Martin, gently, softly, lovingly, shifts Jon’s hair against the grain. It almost hurts, the release, and Jon lets out a gusty sigh. 

“Yeah?” Martin asks into the back of Jon’s neck, voice dry and quiet. 

“Yeah,” Jon croaks, and Martin’s hands lower to the nape of his neck. Jon opens his mouth to let out a noise of protest, but then Martin’s hands find a knot between Jon’s neck and his right shoulder, and Jon does everything within his power to salvage what remaining dignity he has and not melt completely into a puddle. 

“You should stretch more,” Martin laughs, his voice not reaching louder than a whisper. Jon hums in assent, but he’s not really listening. Martin’s hands are firm and strong, and his thumbs dig in just where they need to be, and Jon doesn't have it in him to think right now. 

Martin’s hands trail from one shoulder to the other, digging into Jon’s skin, into his muscles, deep into his core. 

“Is this..?” Martin asks, and Jon nods, twisting in Martin’s lap to kiss him again. Martin’s hands trace back up to Jon’s hair, scratching against Jon’s scalp in the most divine way. Jon moans into Martin’s mouth, soft but low, and he can’t even bring himself to care. It feels  _ good _ , and he wants Martin to know. He fists his hands in the hem of Martin’s jumper, the material soft and warm, but not what he’s after. 

“I-” he starts, but Martin cuts him off with another kiss, his own hands trailing down from Jon’s hair and slipping under the thin cotton of Jon’s shirt. His hands are, of course, warm. He’s far enough out of the Lonely for that, and Jon feels his skin form goosebumps under his touch. 

“Can I take this off?” Martin asks, his right hand pulled out to ghost over Jon’s buttons. 

“Yeah,” Jon breathes, nodding. “You too?” 

Martin pulls back for a moment to pull his jumper off, discarding it on the bed next to them, before fumbling at Jon’s buttons, pulling him from his shirt. In an instant, they’re flushed together. Jon’s hands find Martin’s sides, and he leans back, pulling Martin down with him. It’s his favourite feeling, he’s decided, the sensation of Martin’s skin against his own. He skims his hands up and over Martin’s back, savouring the feeling of Martin in his palms. It feels good, it feels right, the way Martin fits into him. Like they were moulded together before they were even made. 

Martin pulls up and away from him and Jon instantly misses his warmth, the feel of their skin pressed together. Martin meets his eyes, dark and heavy with desire. He’s flushed a lovely pink, and his lips are softly parted, still wet from Jon’s own mouth. It’s a sight Jon both relishes and fears. 

He knows how it goes, feels the familiar stillness crawl under his skin. In an instant he feels the room change, the sunlight from this afternoon feels days-weeks-years- ago. He knows Martin thinks bodies are beautiful, that he wants to merge into one, but Jon knows he can't give him that. Not with his body on fire and his guts oozing out of his pores. Martin’s thumb traces along Jon’s jaw, behind his ear, losing his hand in the tangle of Jon’s hair. The touch is usually so welcome, especially here, especially from  _ Martin _ . But there’s an unasked question, an unmade promise hanging above them, and Jon squeezes his eyes shut. It breaks his heart to ask him to stop touching (Martin’s hands are venom and Jon finds himself choking for breath) so he doesn’t. 

He lies there, and he lies there and he lies there. 

Martin’s nose brushes the wake of his thumb, up along Jon’s jawline, until his lips fix on the soft patch of skin under his right ear. 

Maybe Jon would be open to it, but if he gives Martin this broken shard of hope he’d cut his fingers on it as he holds it to his heart, and he’d bleed out in Jon’s arms. 

“Is this okay?” Martin asks, pulling away and looking at Jon’s face. “Jon- Jon, are you alright?” 

Jon closes his eyes again and hums, hoping he sounds more convincing than he feels. He threads his fingers through Martin’s honey hair and grips it tight- not too tight, but tight enough to stop the shaking. Martin pulls his own hand out from under Jon and moves it to cover Jon’s hand in his own hair. 

“Hey,” he says, not unkindly, “it’s okay if it’s not.” 

Jon doesn’t say anything, doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t move. He doesn’t trust himself to say what he wants to say but doesn’t trust himself to say what he means, either. 

“Jon.” Martin says again. This time he moves off Jon completely, pulling his hand from his hair but not letting go. Their fingers, laced together in Martin’s palm, is their only point of contact, and Jon suppresses a shiver. It feels wrong to miss the feel of their bare skin pressed together when he’s the exact reason it stopped. 

“Talk to me, Jon.” Martin’s voice is all but a whisper, reaching through their distance. Jon opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His eyes stay closed. He can’t do this looking at Martin’s face, knowing Martin’s looking at him. 

“I-” he begins, but nothing follows. Martin squeezes his hand gently, not letting go, and for that Jon is grateful. 

“I, I want to.. want to. I wish that I wanted to, but I-. I don’t-” He breaks off, at last cracking his eyes open and pushing himself up into a seated position. He keeps his gaze low, avoiding Martin, but doesn’t loosen his grip on his hand. “I- I never- I’m, I’m sorry. I don’t want to- I don’t.” 

“Hey, Jon, hey,” Martin breathes. He lifts his arm out towards Jon, then thinks better of it and lowers it back to his side. His fingers tap hesitantly on his thigh, a nervous tick since before he and Jon ever met. Jon’s heart aches for the comfort Martin won’t offer- not now, not with Jon panicking at the thought of contact. He wants to crawl into Martin’s space, ask for the comfort he doesn’t deserve, to be held. He fights off another shiver instead. Martin sighs. “What’s going on up there?” 

“I don’t want sex,” Jon says, barely audible over the beating of his heart. “ I- I want to give it to you, I promise, I do. But I-” He stops, he swallows. He turns his head to the side, watching the branches outside the window as they sway in the breeze. He’s facing Martin now, even if he still can’t make the leap to look at his face. He can still see the way he softens, can make out but not understand the expression on his face. 

“I don’t- Jon, I don’t want to have sex with you if that’s not- if that’s not something you want.” 

“I want to want to-” Jon tries, but Martin cuts him off. 

“That’s not the same thing, Jon. You know that. If that’s how you feel then I don’t want to have sex with you. I love you, Jon. Sex has nothing to do with it.” Jon chokes back a sob at that. He wants to hunch over himself, curl into a snail shell and drop out of the world. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. He wants to go back to sitting next to Martin in the gentle sunlight, counting his freckles as Martin pretends he doesn’t notice Jon watching him. 

“I wish I could love you the way you love me,” he says instead. It’s Martin’s turn to let out a strangled squeak, and Jon finally meets his gaze. His face is open and soft, and so, so Martin. His brows pinch together, his mouth a tense line as he finds what he wants to say. 

“Jon,” he starts, and his hand moves again. He doesn’t catch himself before he reaches Jon. A tentative hand on his elbow, and Jon leans into the touch as much as he can, promising Martin that this isn’t too much, that this isn’t unwelcome. 

“Don’t talk like that, Jon,” Martin begs. “It’s just… it’s just sex. It’s got nothing on you. I don’t want sex, I want, I want  _ you _ . I want your passions, and your interests. I want you to tell me what the clouds mean for the weather each morning and where we are in the moon cycle. I want to make you tea and visit the cows with you. I want to kill Elias and to forget about the archives and I want to growl at you for sticking your cold feet between my thighs in the middle of the night. I want your hand in mine, your boring books next to my poetry ones, your shirts hung up in the closet alongside mine. I want  _ you _ , Jon. Sex has nothing to do with the way we love- not the way I do, not the way you do. That’s not what it is.” 

“I like it when you touch me,” Jon says, steadfastly ignoring Martin’s wee speech, not knowing where to put it. It’s true, though. He  _ does  _ like it when Martin touches him. He likes how it makes him feel more human and less Eye, it makes him feel like someone worth touching. 

“Most of the time,” Martin says. It’s not a pointed comment, but Jon can feel the sharp edges cut into his throat. He has a point. Jon wants to find that line, where it goes from good to bad. He wants to get closer to Martin, to crawl inside his chest and nestle himself between his ribs. To be kept safe from the rest of the world, because he knows what he’d do for Martin, and he’s starting to figure out what Martin would do for him. 

“Can we- can you,” Jon doesn’t know how to ask, not with words. He tugs gently on Martin’s arm and leans in. Martin unlaces their fingers and holds his arms open for him. He crawls into them, warm at last, as Martin’s arms fold around his back, holding him in place, cradling him. 

“I don’t know what I want,” Jon admits, easier to confess with his face tucked into Martin’s chest. “I want something, and maybe I-” He stops, breathes in. Holds it. Lets it go. “I want… I don’t …”

“It’s okay,” Martin promises. “We’ll figure it out, and whatever it is, it’ll be okay.” 

And Jon trusts him. 

**Author's Note:**

> What is fanfiction for if not projection?


End file.
